


the last shred of truth (in the lost myth of true love)

by neondog



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood and Injury, Deviates From Canon, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, Recovery, Sex, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 04:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neondog/pseuds/neondog
Summary: vignettes of the relationship between Fenris and Camellia Hawke // some canon deviation where Danarius dies during Bait and Switch // potential change of rating later
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke, Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Hawke & Varric Tethras
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

Camellia plants her staff in the trenches between the tiles, lifting herself to a kneel. She raises her head and huffs out a breath to disrupt the stillness. The elf is across the room; blood drips down the gauntlet of his right hand where he’d reached in the chest of the magister and squeezed it until it burst.

“Fenris?”

The sound of his name makes his ears flick, and it pulls him out of the trance he seems to be in. He swings around, sword held loosely in his off-hand. His eyes are wide; his face drains of color. “I didn’t--please--” He looks between her and the body frantically before dropping to his knees. His sword clatters to the ground, and he falls forward onto his palms. He gasps for breath, and his back arches as he heaves like he’s going to vomit. Camellia pulls herself to her feet. She leans heavy on her staff, still weak from the magister’s magic, and she moves toward him as fast as her body allows.

“Fenris.”

She sinks down beside him. His fear radiates like heat off his skin. She reaches out and hovers a hand above his shoulder. He flinches, and his head snaps up to stare at her. Camellia moves her palm in the space above him, over his back and up again. Her bones hum as she calls magic to her fingers; her fingertips barely brush the skin of his arm, the healing magic jumping through the slight contact.

“You did it,” she says, never looking away. “You’re safe. He’s dead.”

There’s still terror, like the magister might come to life and wield his punishment harsher than any sword. But she points at the dead body until his eyes follow.

“You _did_ it.”

The soft yellow light of her magic seeps into his skin, and he stops shivering.

Fenris picks himself up, and he shifts so he’s sitting against the wall, one knee drawn up and resting his arm on it. There’s a small thump as his head hits the stone. His eyelids flutter.

“Thank you,” he says. It’s tired, but it’s genuine.

“How long has he been chasing you?” Camellia sits down. She lets her staff lay across her 

“Three years.” Fenris exhales through his nose. “Three long years. And now...what? It’s just over?”

Camellia furrows her brow. “You sound disappointed.”

“No, no. It’s just…” Fenris reaches up and scratches lightly at his face. It leaves streaks of the magister’s blood. “I don’t quite know what to do now.” There’s a beat of silence. “I feel empty.”

“Empty...good? Or empty bad?”

Fenris frowns. “Good. I think.”

“You think?”

He makes a frustrated noise, and he throws his hands up before pushing himself to his feet. “I don’t know!” He paces the floor for a moment before lifting his head just enough to lay eyes on the magister. Camellia stands, and she wobbles. She presses a fist to her forehead to make it stop swimming. Fenris turns, and he looks at her with knitted brows.

“I should probably report this to Aveline,” Camellia mutters, vision still blurry. “Let her know.”

She pushes away from her staff, tries to stand honestly on her own. Fenris still watches her. She meets his gaze, green for grey.

“Why?”

“What?” Camellia can’t hide her confusion. Fenris opens his mouth and snaps it shut. He opens it again, but he still looks uncertain.

“You’re a mage.”

Camellia’s face goes blank, and her eyes are half-lidded. She raises one eyebrow, “Are you asking why I’m a mage?” A small smirk tweaks the corner of her mouth, and she can’t help the snark in her voice as she starts, “Well you see, when a mommy mage and daddy mage love each other very much--”

“No! That’s...not what I meant.” She can hear a touch of amusement in his voice, and she only smiles bigger. “What I mean is...shouldn’t you help your fellow mages?”

The smile on Camellia’s face drops. “You think I should help a slimy dog like him because we can both do some fun parlor tricks?” For emphasis, she snaps and makes a flame spark to life in her palm. She watches the blue light dance before turning her gaze back up to Fenris. “I help my fellow mages when they deserve it. What he got--” She closes her fist and the flame goes out. “--is what he deserved.”.

“You’re right about that one.” Fenris stares down at the magister’s body.

“So what now?” Camellia picks up her staff and walks toward Fenris.“I’ve no idea,” Fenris rumbles. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“You could go home.”

He’s deadpan, “I don’t have one.”

Camellia feels her chest squeeze, and she casts her eyes down. “I...know what you mean.”

Fenris huffs, a laugh without any humor. “Seems we’re both strangers in this 

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Camellia says, waving one hand. “The Marchers only hate your entire existence, and you know? The rats in Lowtown don’t actually taste that bad.”

Fenris ducks his head and laughs, covering his mouth with a closed fist. He coughs to cut it short, but he’s still smiling when he looks at her. “I’ll keep that in mind. For now--” He looks around the abandoned mansion. “I think I’ll stay here.” He meets her eyes. “Come find me if you need me.”

Camellia reaches a hand out, and Fenris shakes it. She’s nearly grinning as she says, “I will.”


	2. Chapter 2

It is only days later when she calls on him. A twinge in her gut, thick with worry, strikes her, and she wanders up from Lowtown to tap her knuckles against the wood door. Camellia peeks down at her feet, kicking a loose pebble while she waits. The moments stretch longer, and her worry strengthens again. Another knock, louder this time. Her hands fidget with the rings she wears, twisting and turning like her stomach.

Finally, blissfully, there is an answer. Fenris pulls the door back; his face is shadowed with sleeplessness. Camellia breathes out quickly. “Maker, take longer next time,” she says in rush.

“What?”

She waves a hand. “Nothing. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Fenris steps back, silently offering a way in. She takes it, and he closes the door. “It’s been difficult,” he admits. “I will say I am concerned about finding more of Danarius’s wards hidden in this home.”

“I don’t blame you.” Camellia uses a finger to light a lamp in the crushingly-dark room. The blue flame catches and turns ordinary, pooling warm light over their faces. She turns to him. “I can check if you’d like.”

Fenris flicks an ear when he agrees, and Camellia has to hide her surprise. She figures it must have been a poor effort as he asks, “What?”

“Huh?” She turns away, walking deeper into the home and lighting more lamps to hide her embarrassment.

“You...made a face.” Camellia can hear the smile on his face, and suddenly she regrets coming.

“Did I? I certainly have one, so that wouldn’t be a surprise.” Her deflection fails, clearly, as the sounds of Fenris following her ring true. “It was...the ear.” She turns around, and Fenris is clearly 

“This?” His ears flick again, not unlike a cat that is listening to something in the next room. Her cheeks are warm. “Elves have much more control of their ears. Something left over from when they all lived in swamps, I’m certain.”

“I--I haven’t been around elves much.” Her face is burning, but she doesn’t think it’s from embarrassment which makes her face burn even more.

“Looks like I’ve got a parlor trick of my own.” He flattens his ears then brings them up again. Camellia rolls her lips inward to keep from laughing.

“I suppose you do.”

Fenris’s eyes dance in the lights, and she has to look away. She’s smiling to herself as she wanders the halls. She pulls down sigils laced with fire magic, and Fenris watches. They talk idly, and as they do, Camellia misses a trap on the ground. It is small, written on the broken tiles. It triggers when it feels her body, and it explodes in a small burst of energy. Camellia catches on a hole in the ground, and she drops hard. She scrambles away as a demon snaps at her ankles; the shade reaches for her, roaring, and she throws a streak of blue fire at it.

“Get back!” Fenris yells, dragging his greatsword off his spine. He swings it wide, and the blade sticks into the side of the demon. It makes a horrible sound, and it claws at Fenris from the other end of the blade.

“Fenris!” Camellia springs to her feet despite the pain, and she calls a bolt of electricity down to hit the shade. It screeches, and Fenris uses the moment to free his sword; he brings it down again. The shade spurts something like blood, and it goes limp on the blade. He wrenches it back, and the body falls with a thud. Smoke pours, and the demon’s essence returns to the fade. Fenris turns on his heels; he takes two great strides to Camellia.

“Are you alright?” His brows are furrowed deep, and he combs over her.

“Fine.” Camellia gasps out softly. “I’m fine.” There’s a strong throb in her ankle that she flinches at. “As delightful as this little tryst has been, can we sit down?”

Fenris sheathes his greatsword. “Yes. Can you make it to the room upstairs?”

Camellia nods. “I can ease it enough to walk.” She starts toward the main hall; Fenris watches until, she assumes, he is satisfied she can walk. Her palms glow as she manifests healing in her ankle. She concentrates quietly on tackling the stairs, slumping into a chair before the fireplace. She reaches and circles her fingers around her leg and heals it slowly. It is a few minutes until Fenris returns.

“Where did you wander off to?” she says, looking up. He’s holding a bottle, and she raises an eyebrow.

“The cellar. I figured you could use a bit of man-made healing,” he says, a small smile on his face. “And a bit of thanks for dragging the last of the magic out of this place.” He stands, staring at the label. “Aggregio pavali.”

“Sounds out of my budget.” Camellia sits up, and she sags against the chair.

“Oh, it is.” Fenris pops the cork from the bottle, and he pours her a glass. “You would think this is water, the way Danarius goes--went--through this.”

Camellia takes the glass full of dark red wine, and she takes a long sip. Her face scrunches at the taste, and she coughs. “Ah, of course,” she sputters out. “Luxury.”

Fenris laughs softly, “Not much of a drinker?” He presses the bottle to his mouth and tips it back.

“Maybe when it doesn’t taste like dragon piss.” She wipes her mouth. “Then again, I think Kocari ale is worth breaching the Black City for, so perhaps don’t take my word for it.”

He lurches forward in a laugh, wine catching in his throat and forcing him to cough. Camellia howls a good, Fereldan laugh at the dark liquid running down his chin. Fenris squints in annoyance, but it means nothing. He chuckles quietly, and he sits across from her.

Camellia snorts as she reins in her laughter, and she takes another drink from the wine glass, giggling through the bitter taste. “I take it you like this...monstrosity then?”

“I’ve never had it,” Fenris tells her honestly. “Like I said, it’s Danarius’s favorite. I only poured it.” He sobers as he speaks. He stands as he turns the bottle over in his hands. “I did it often. Danarius enjoyed how my appearance frightened his guests.”

The smile on Camellia’s face drips away, and she is suddenly even more disgusted by the liquid in her hand. She places it on the table in front of her and pushes it as far from herself as she can.

“What a delightful individual,” she 

“Indeed.” Fenris considers the bottle further. He thumbs the label with the clawed tip of his armor. He takes another long swig. Camellia watches his throat bob before flicking her eyes back to the fire. Fenris swallows, and in one swift motion, he rears back and flings the bottle against the wall. Glass shatters and wine sprays across the room. Camellia shields her face from small droplets.

“Nice throw,” she teases. “Can I try?” She picks up the glass he had poured her.

Fenris smiles, and he takes a deep, mocking bow. “Of course, my lady.”

Camellia grins, toothy and excited. She pulls her arm back and throws the glass as hard as she can. It barely makes it to the wall, but it shatters beautifully, leaving a smaller wine stain beside the one Fenris had made.

“Your form could use work.” Fenris looks over at her, crossing his arms.

“Piss off,” she shoots back, still grinning. “You’re welcome to come throw rocks at the ships down in Lowtown with me.”

Fenris starts to laugh, but something overcomes him while he looks at the mess the two of them have made. Camellia watches as a ghost crosses his face, and his eyes lose the shine from earlier. He moves stiffly towards the mess, as if listening to unspoken words, and he kneels down to pick up the pieces of the bottle. He is silent, the only sounds of glass clinking against each other.

Movement out of the corner of his eyes makes him look. Camellia is kneeling beside him, gathering the broken glass in her palms. She says nothing, and neither does he. But the shadow is gone from his face. He almost smiles. Almost.


	3. Chapter 3

Camellia doesn’t know why she ends up at his front door. She’s covered in dirt and darkspawn blood. Her armor is broken in a dozen different spots, and she wants to drink until she’s dead. Her fist pounds on his door; it’s the middle of the night. _He’s asleep_ , her mind snaps at her. _Go the hell home._ She starts to drag herself away when the door is thrown open.

Fenris looks at her, meets her bloodshot eyes. The intensity of his gaze breaks the dam she had been holding for days. Fat tears drop down her cheeks, and she opens her mouth but nothing leaves.

Fenris reaches out. He grabs her wrist, soft, but certain. He pulls her toward him, and Camellia lets her arms slide around his body. Her face, smeared with dust and blood, presses into his shoulder, and she wails. Her body rocks with the sheer force of her sobs, and Fenris holds her tight. He is still. He is solid.

Camellia pulls herself from him; her tears have tracked through the dirt, and she wipes weakly at her face. She can’t bring herself to say anything. Shame wells in her throat, and she goes to leave. But Fenris wraps his fingers around her arm. He brings her through the doorway, and he shuts it quietly. He guides her wordlessly through the mansion; Camellia lets herself be guided. She feels small in her own body, and she cannot bring herself to do anything other than be.

Fenris sits her on the edge of a dusty bed. He leaves briefly, returning with a wooden bucket full of cold water. He grabs a chair and pulls it to the edge of the bed, the legs scraping against the tiles. He pulls a piece of cloth from the water, wringing it out as he sits down.

“Fenris--”

“Camellia.”

His voice is firm. It says so much in only a brief moment. His green eyes are fixing her in place. She shivers, and she drops her gaze with a small exhale. Fenris reaches for her face.

The softness of the cloth partnered with how Fenris’s drags it slowly across her face reawakens the pain in her chest. Her eyes squeeze shut, tears streaming steadily as Fenris scrubs the dirt away. Her shoulders quiver as she cries, and Fenris says nothing. He dips the cloth into the bucket again.

Silence follows the next several minutes. Eventually, he turns his attention to her cracked hands. He wipes them clean, but they bleed from the cloth dragging over the wounds. Camellia sniffles, and she tries to muster the energy to send the weakest bit of healing magic to her palms. She grits her teeth, but Fenris speaks.

“Stop.” Her eyes flutter open. Fenris sets the cloth aside, and he leaves the room. Camellia uses her magic instead to light the fireplace on the other end of the room. It makes her breathless from the effort, and she gasps for air. When Fenris returns, he looks between the fire and her with a displeased expression.

Fenris sits in front of her again. “You need to calm yourself,” he murmurs. “Recovering should be your only priority.” He takes a roll of bandages and unravels it. He wraps the material around her hands several times before securing it. He repeats this on her other hand.

“He’s gone,” Camellia finally whispers.

Fenris looks up at her.

“Carver. The darkspawn they--” The lump in her throat chokes her. “He--” She wipes at her face angrily. “He looked so _sick_.” She sobs once. “Anders knew. A-about some wardens. They took him.” She bares her teeth. “I don’t even know if he lived. I don’t--"

Fenris exhales heavily. He watches her for a moment before speaking. “I’m sorry.”

Camellia presses the heels of her palms into her eyes. A shaky breath sneaks past. “No, I’m sorry. I should go--”

“No.” Fenris almost snaps it out. “It’s the middle of the night, the last thing you need to do is wander through this city. Stay here.” Fenris rises from the chair he had been sitting in. “I can leave this with you.” He gestures to the wash bucket and roll of bandages. “Should you need anything, come find me.”

Camellia looks up at him. He stares at her, waiting. Finally, she nods. He waits, but ultimately he seems satisfied. He leaves the room, and he shuts the door behind him.

After a moment, Camellia stands, stripping herself of her armor. She sighs when the weight leaves her body and it clatters to the floor. A mirror on the wall shows her skin is speckled purple with dozens of bruises; dried blood and crusted-over cuts slash over her back. She reaches down and grabs the cloth Fenris left for her.

After she washes her body of grime, she slips under the cool sheets, and her body sags, utterly exhausted, against the bed.

Her eyes flutter closed. As she falls asleep, she thinks of Fenris. She realizes, with a shudder she can’t place, that that was the first time he’d said her name.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: parental abuse

Fenris walks her home in the morning. He slips into the room with a knock, sets clean clothes in the room and waits outside. Camellia drags on the slightly moth-eaten shirt, likely from the old owners, and the equally tattered pair of trousers. She gathers her bag, her worn armor, and her staff. When she opens the door, Fenris looks her over. Her face is swollen from crying, and her gray eyes are watery with sadness. Fenris offers a small piece of bread; she ignores it.

“I’m going to Gamlen’s,” she murmured, her voice hoarse.

“I will go with you.” It is not a question. It is not something to be denied. He reaches for the bundle of armor in her hands. She lets him take it, and they start towards the door.

There is nothing to be said on the walk to Lowtown. A few individuals take pause, watching the pair move through the city. Fenris regards them with cold eyes, and that is all it takes. When Camellia reaches the stairs through the marketplace, down to Lowtown, Fenris’s hand comes to rest against her back to help her uncertain steps. She barely registers the touch, and she stumbles down the stairs.

Fenris looks at her, sees the lines of exhaustion deep in her face. He thinks back to when she first left for the Deep Roads. It was nearly two months. With a start, he realizes she had likely been in there for nearly twice the time 

“Why were you all underground for so long?” he asks softly.

“Not all of us,” she murmurs. There is a barely contained rage locked behind her teeth. It gives him pause. “Bartrand--Varric’s brother--locked us in an old dwarven vault.” Fenris stops, turns to stare. Camellia is seething, and it is plain on her face. “It took us weeks to find our way out.”

“Where is he now?” Fenris blinks with intent.

“Don’t know. Varric’s probably trying to find out.” The anger fades. “Carver…”

Fenris sets a steady hand on her shoulder. “He will be fine.”

Camellia shrugs him off. “You didn’t see how sick he looked,” she spits. “His blood was _black_ , oh Maker…” Her hand covers her mouth.

“Keep walking.”

They march through the dirt of Lowtown again. When they reach Gamlen’s door, Camellia almost knocks. But her fingers wrap around the splintered handle, and she pushes her way in.

“Oh thank the Maker.” Leandra’s voice greets them. Fenris watches Leandra leap to her feet, shielding her face from the bright morning sun. The door closes, and the hopeful smile on Leandra’s face drops, her face going cold. “Where’s Carver?”

Camellia looks at the ground.

“Camellia.” Leandra steps closer. “Where. Is. Carver?”

She looks up, and her face is twisted in pain. “I--He--”

Leandra falls to her knees. “No. No, no. No, oh dear Maker, no. Not him. Not Carver, too.” She rocks back and forth, tears streaming through the wrinkles on her face. “I can’t, I can’t--” She seems to snap from the trance, and she bares her teeth in anger. She points a trembling finger at Camellia. “I _told_ you not to take him! How could you _do_ this? He was your brother!” She stands again, marching toward Camellia with newfound fire. “You let him die!”

Fenris steps between Camellia and Leandra. “Enough.”

“This is not your business, _elf_ ,” Leandra hisses.

“You will not blame her.” Fenris is firm. His arm reaches back to form a barrier in front of Camellia.

“It was _her_ job to protect him! My children are _dead_ , and she has done this!” Leandra’s voice pitches toward a screech.

“I don’t know if he’s dead!” Camellia shouts, pressing against Fenris’s arm. “The Wardens took him!”

“The Wardens? You let _darkspawn_ touch my son?” Leandra turns away. She holds her face in her hands and sobs. “My babies...oh, Maker, my babies.”

Fenris pivots to face Camellia. “You don’t need to stay here with her.” He says it plainly. He does not care if Leandra hears 

“I...can’t, Fenris.” Camellia looks away. He follows her gaze to the mabari on the floor. Wolfsbane looks up at them and whines. “I need to stay here.”

Fenris touches her arm. She meets his eyes. He looks into her stormy grey irises before saying, “I understand.” A pause. “Should you need me--”

“I will.” There is not a drop of hesitation. It soothes him to hear her so certain. “Thank you.”

He bows at the waist. It is stiff, but Camellia smiles at the gesture. He kneels beside Wolfsbane. The big gray mabari sniffs the air around him. “Keep an eye on things,” he says quietly. He hears a small giggle from Camellia and smiles. Fenris stands, nodding to her again as he leaves Gamlen’s home.

The door is barely shut before Leandra screams again.


	5. Chapter 5

Camellia’s life turns upside down. The items taken from the thaig are enough to buy the old estate that belonged to Leandra’s family. Camellia hates it, but she admits it is still better than Gamlen’s house. She spends her days moving furniture and registering papers with the seneschal, leaving little time for much else. In her spare time, Camellia writes letters to the friends she’s made. Fenris never writes back, and it makes her more upset than she admits. Varric comes over often to help move things, and he takes pleasure in updating Camellia on the latest words in town.

After nearly a year of work, Camellia pauses. The house is...well, fine. Leandra speaks glowingly of the home, spending most of her time in a section of the house she’s claimed as ‘hers.’ Camellia welcomes the space from her mother. Camellia leaves a note on the desk in the front room, explaining she is going out and doesn’t know when she may stop in again. And she leaves.

For the first time in nearly a year, the sun and wind of Kirkwall hits her face, and she breathes in relief. It stinks of the ocean, and Camellia longs in her heart of hearts for the smell of Ferelden air. However, today, the salt of the bay is precisely what she desires more than anything. She nearly bounces through Hightown, not an inkling of an idea of where to go. Before she knows it, her feet take her to the old magister’s house. Though, she supposes it is now Fenris’s house.

She knocks, waiting, before hearing a muffled ‘come in!’ shouted from deeper in the house. She turns the handle and pushes forward. There are lights on, more furniture than she remembers. It’s becoming a proper home, and she smiles. Sounds of conversation up the stairs lead her to Fenris chatting idly with Isabela.

“I don’t know why you insist on staying in this place,” she says, shaking her head slightly. They both take notice of Camellia.

Fenris runs a sharpening stone over his greatsword and says absently, “I like the view.”

Isabela grins, eyes flicking to Camellia pointedly. “I’m sure you do, elf.” She stands. “My offer still stands.” Her hips sway as she passes them both, and she nudges Camellia as she passes by. Camellia moves to sit across from Fenris, on a newly acquired couch.

“What was that about?”

Fenris clears his throat. “Nothing.” He sets the sharpening stone aside and sheathes his greatsword, laying it carefully across the seat of a wooden chair. “It has been a while,” he says blunty.

“I’ve been busy.” Camellia sinks against the cloth. “The estate has been...a project, to say the least.”

“I can imagine.” Fenris leans back, his knees falling open and his elbows reaching to rest on the back of the chair. “How is your mother adjusting?”

Camellia tries not to let her disappointment color her words. “If you’d read my letters, you would know,” she jokes weakly.

Fenris looks almost sheepish. Camellia furrows her brows, and he sighs. He leans forward, and he rubs one hand against the back of his neck. “I...don’t know how. To read.”

Camellia is suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I didn’t mean--”

“It’s alright,” he assures gently. “Slaves are not allowed to learn. If I had begun to learn before the branding rites, I lost all knowledge.” Fenris pauses before standing abruptly, and he opens the drawer of a small table near the fireplace. He lifts out a stack of papers, and he shows them to Camellia, his hands gripping them tightly.

“You kept them.”

“Every one.” Fenris’s face is slightly pink. He shows the open seals. “Your handwriting is beautiful.”

Camellia feels her stomach twist and it is achingly pleasant. A smile pulls at her lips, and her eyes catch his. He smiles back, and Camellia thinks she might start sweating. She opens her mouth dumbly before snapping it shut again. Finally, she speaks, “I can read them to you, if you like.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Camellia moves to sit at the table. Fenris pulls a chair to sit near her, his shoulder touching hers. Her heart is beating quickly, and she fumbles with the letters. She smooths the first one out, and Fenris leans close to her to look at the words. Camellia mutters a prayer begging for strength in her mind. Her fingertip starts under the first line, and it drags as she reads, allowing Fenris’s eyes to follow. He stops her on occasion, reaching out to pull the sharp tip of his armor across a word that he’ll repeat.

They move through the bundle of letters eagerly, stopping for laughs and Camellia’s further explanations of what she’d written. The fireplace burns down to embers and the chill of night is suddenly overwhelming them in the large house.

“I didn’t know it was so late,” she says, giving a long stretch that accompanies a yawn. She presses her knuckles into her palm and cracks them softly.

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to keep you.” Fenris leans back against the chair, rolling his own neck to work the stiffness out.

“Don’t apologize. This was fun.” Camellia stands and walks to the fireplace. She chucks in a few sizable pieces of firewood and coaxes the fire back alive with her magic and a poker. “If you’d like I can bring books. We can keep this up.”

Fenris’s ears stand up tall. “Are you certain?” She can’t miss the flickering excitement in his deep green irises, and she grins.

“Of course.”

“I would treasure that.” The low rumble of his voice, heightened by his sincerity, nearly knocks her from her feet. Andraste, her knees wobble at the sound.

“It’s a deal then.” Camellia makes her way toward the door. Fenris stands and walks her wordlessly to the front door. He pulls it open, and she stands just outside, shrouded in moonlight. Her fingers comb through her hair.

“Will you be safe?” It’s a stupid question, Fenris knows. She will be more than fine.

“Yes. It should be fine.” She doesn’t know why she says that. No one will bother her. If they do, she can handle it. But she keeps the hesitation in her sentence. Like she’s hoping for something.

“Good.” A shuffle of feet. “Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight, Fenris.”

He starts at how soft her name is in her mouth. For a brief moment, there is no pain in the syllables. There is only tenderness, and something that makes his heart twist skyward in his chest. She goes to leave, but he calls out.

“Camellia--” She snaps her head back, a smile starting to pull at her mouth. His tongue feels heavy, and all he manages to say is. “I will see you soon.”

Her grin is unbearable. She gives a small wave. “Of course you will.”

The promise keeps him awake all night.


	6. Chapter 6

Something stops them on the way to the Sundermount. At first, it is unremarkable. Bandits roam the base of the mountain freely, and Camellia knows they are more than equipped to handle it. The first pocket of supposed-thieves is dispelled quickly; their bodies are left to stain the sandy soil red. However, when stepping below a small cliff, the sound of bow strings being pulled back sets her on edge.

Camellia swings her staff and places it horizontally to stop the rest of her party from moving forward. Fenris’s ears are flicking, and he looks up to the ledge. His face immediately twists with anger, and he hisses, “Slavers.”

She whips around, electricity already crackling in the air. Her eyes are trained on a man stepping forward to speak. “You are in possession of a Tevinter magister’s property. Step away.” His voice is ragged, and his beady eyes peak down at them past a large beard.

“Fenris is not property,” she yells, her voice threatening to crack. She hears Varric crank Bianca’s mechanisms. “Fenris is a free man.”

The man snarls. He draws a sword and points it at Camellia. “I said, move away from the _slave._ ”

A roar rips from Fenris’s throat as he tears his greatsword from his back. The lyrium tattoos are glowing bright blue. “I am _not_ your slave!”

Arrows fly towards them. Camellia catches one in her shoulder; she tears it free before sending bolts of lightning crashing down on the ledge. Slavers skid down the encampment towards them. Varric fires at those still standing above them. Isabela scrambles up a rocky set of footholds and maneuvers behind for easy pickings. Camellia scatters sigils on the ground that burst into fire-traps, sending slavers screaming. Fenris is cutting through them as easily as butter. Any wounds he suffers are covered by yellow light and sealed 

When the fight stops abruptly, dust is swirling over the bodies. Fenris sheathes his greatsword; his eyes roam the dirt, and he finds what he wants. Without a sound, he stomps over to a mage still moving.

“Fenris--” Camellia follows him.

The elf grips a palmful of the mage’s hair. He slams his face into the hard ground with a crunch. When he lifts it, there is blood running from his nose. “Who sent you?”

“I don’t know,” said the mage. Blood stains his teeth. Fenris slams his face again. “I d-don’t--” _Slam._ “Please I--” _Slam._ “Alright! Alright!”

Fenris turns the mage onto his back. He watches his face intently. “Who sent you? Danarius has been dead for three years.”

“H-” He sputters blood. “Hadrianna.”

Fenris pales, but his rage is stronger than ever. “Why?”

“S-she inherited all of Danarius’s property. She took his title. She’s a m-magister.” The man is drooling blood onto his robes. “She sent f-for you.”

Without another word, Fenris grips the drooling mage’s face and twists, snapping his neck and dropping his limp body onto the sand. He stands. Camellia watches his body shake.

“Fenris--” she echoes, softer. He turns on his heel. She stiffens at the sight of him. His eyes are unfocused, caught between anger boiling beneath his skin and fear scratching, biting at his stomach. “Fenris.”

“I should have known,” he spits. “I should have known that bitch would want to do anything to prove herself better than Danarius.” He clenches his fists, holds them near his face. “What better way to do that than bring back the dog that killed him?” He paces; his eyes are flicking back and forth, as though he is looking for escape 

“So we’ll kill her.” The sentence is easily spoken. Camellia feels no conflict in her body at the idea. It’s a decision that’s already been made in her mind.

Fenris scoffs. “Yes, let’s march into Minrathous and split her skull. Perhaps they’ll even show us the way.” He throws his hands up. “She’ll stay safe in the city while I spend my time fighting slavers. It will _never_ end.”

“It _will.”_ Camellia squares her shoulders, and she meets his gaze. Fenris watches her intently, focuses on the gray eyes so filled with certainty. It settles his soul for a brief moment. He drops his arms, and his fingers relax from being clenched. Camellia reaches out and brushes her fingers against his forearm. “It will.”

Fenris looks down; he watches her fingertips trace along his skin reassuringly. It is fire and water at the same time. It is too much. He pulls away. “I need to go.”

Camellia watches him storm back, away from the Sundermount. Varric’s boots crunch through the sand, and he looks up at her. “I’ve got some contacts I can send to Tevinter.”

“Do it,” Camellia says. She looks at her dearest friend with clouded eyes. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Hawke.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: implied/referenced sexual abuse

Fenris hides himself for several days. Whenever Camellia makes an excuse to go by, the door is locked and the curtains drawn. In the meantime, she informs Aveline. The city guard should know about Tevinter presence, especially if they are trying to steal people away. She also speaks to Varric. He says little about the contacts he has in Minrathous (vague hints at trading perhaps) but assures her that once they find something, he'll know on the next bird.

After a particularly long day of running around the city, Camellia treks towards the manor. Night has brought Kirkwall to a hush, and she appreciates the silence. Waves crash in the distance as she stomps home. Her armor rattles, and anyone that looks at her quickly looks away.

Camellia swings the door to the estate open. She braces herself for Wolfsbane's body slamming into her own, but the weight never comes. She closes the door. "Wolfsbane?" she calls softly, not wanting to wake anyone in the house. "Wolf?"

The mabari doesn't answer, and Camellia frowns. She sits on the bench in the foyer, unlatching her boots and dropping them. She strips from her armor and allows it the same unceremonious fate. Walking through the threshold, she starts.

Fenris sits cross-legged in front of the main fireplace. Wolfsbane is contentedly laying against him, huffing in his sleep and making his jowls flap. Fenris pets his head absently and looks up.

"It's good to see you," Camellia breathes quietly.

Fenris gives a small smile. "I am glad to see you, too." He moves to stand but stops when Camellia plops beside him with a heavy sigh. She stretches, joints cracking with the firewood.

"How've you been?" she says in an almost-whisper.

"I am...better today." He watches Camellia close her hand over a burn on her arm and heal it easily. "It feels like being on the run again."

Camellia moves a hand to her aching knee. "Have you been sleeping?"

"No," he mutters honestly. "I feel as though once I close my eyes she'll be there."

"Who is this woman?"

Fenris tenses visibly, and he stares down at the floor tiles. "She--" He sighs, petting Wolfsbane along his back. The mabari woofs softly in his sleep, dreaming. "She was apprenticed under Danarius. And she was the worst of them. She was in charge of overseeing my treatment when Danarius couldn't be bothered. She would starve me, all the while bringing her meals down to eat in front of me. She would--"

Camellia touches his knee, drawing him from the painful memories to look into her face. Her eyes, normally stormy gray, pick up the orange light of the fire and burn so intently he has to hold his breath. "You don't have to tell me."

Fenris exhales. "Thank you," he murmurs. "I thought I could speak of it but it still...it aches as though it were yesterday."

"I would find it stranger if it didn't. What you went through…" Camellia trails off. "I wouldn't expect you to be able to speak of it easily." She notices her hand is still on his knee, and she draws it away.

A long silence moves into the space between them. Camellia goes back to healing the wounds scattered over her body. She lifts her undershirt to smooth her magic over a long slice caked in blood. Fenris almost asks, but he focuses his eyes on the mabari instead.

"I thought it was over," he says suddenly. His voice is raspy with pain.

Camellia looks up. Her chest aches at the sadness weighing his shoulders. "It's different this time."

"How?"

"You have us."

Fenris knows. He knows he should be grateful. But he is still gripped with fear, and the unshakeable urge to run.

"I should go." He stands abruptly. Camellia scrambles to her feet.

"Why don't you stay," she says, the words rushing from her mouth.

Fenris is too caught off guard to hide his surprise. His ears pick up, nearly pointing straight to the ceiling. "What?'

"Stay here for the night. That way you feel safe. You have Wolfsbane and I. Bodahn and Sandal are in the guest quarters. Even Mother is here." Camellia gestures wildly to emphasize her point. "It will help you sleep. You need the rest."

Fenris concedes in his head that it isn't a terrible idea. Certainly better than staying awake for another night. "I suppose I can stay." He looks around for a chair to settle into.

"No, no." Camellia grabs his wrist and whistles for Wolfsbane. He shakes himself awake and yawns. "You can stay in my room. I'll sleep down here."

"What?" Fenris takes his wrist back, incredulous. "I won't burden you like that."

"It's not a burden," she insists. "It will be fine, Fenris. You're my friend."

Fenris shakes his head, hair swishing. "No. I won't keep you out of your own bed."

Camellia almost rolls her eyes. "Fenris--" She stops, and she smiles. "Come with me. Please?" She puts her hand out.

Fenris is suspicious. But he takes her hand. She leads him up the stairs with a sleepy Wolfsbane following them. She steps into her room, and she lets him go. With a flick of her hand, she lights the fireplace, her magic catching the firewood easily.

Wolfsbane bumps Fenris's hand, and he pets the slobbering mabari softly. Camellia rummages through her chest of drawers and digs out an old set of clothes.

"These are Carver's. They'll be a bit big on you, but it's just to sleep." She hands him the shirt and trousers. "I've got to change as well so...no peeking? Mage's honor?" She extends her pinky finger, and Fenris raises an eyebrow.

"You're not helping your case," Fenris teases. He hooks his own pinky with hers, and she grins. They stand on opposite ends of the room and change into their sleepwear. Camellia can't hide the way her fingers shake as she pulls her clothes off. Part of her begs to look, to see the way Fenris rolls his shoulders and stretches by the light of the fire. She wonders how far his tattoos reach. She bites her tongue and stays staring at the wall. 

"Are you decent?" she calls.

"I suppose."

The clothes are horribly baggy on Fenris. They hang off his frame like they belong to his big brother, and Camellia can't help but laugh. He shakes his head and smiles.

"I'm starting to think you just like laughing at me," he says, his voice light as he walks toward her.

"Me? Never." She dramatically presses her hands over her heart. "Anyway--" She flings the covers back on the bed. "Get in."

"Camellia, I already said--"

"No I know." She climbs under the covers and pulls them over herself. "Get in."

Fenris, for some reason, starts to sweat on the back of his neck. He watches dumbly as Wolfsbane clambers onto the mattress, his weight making the frame groan and creak. He flops against Camellia, sighing dramatically. Wolfsbane gives a lazy link toward her ear, and she smiles, kissing the stinky mabari on his head.

"Are you certain?" Fenris almost wants her to change her mind. He wishes she would shoo him downstairs, and he could settle in the library for the night. His body shivers despite how warm it is in the room.

"Of course." Camellia is already dimming the fire from the comfort of the bed.

Fenris nods, but he still doesn't move. He fights with his nerves. He knows Camellia is not Danarius. He knows there is no sickening, ulterior motive lingering in her heart. He knows she will keep the mabari between them to satisfy his wariness. Though they have never spoken of Danarius's abuses, she seems to know it runs deeper than physical scars. And he is eternally grateful for it. But now, in this moment of tenderness, of genuine care, his stomach wrenches itself into knots.

Camellia closes her eyes; her breathing starts to settle. Fenris watches her arm, thrown over Wolfsbane, rise and fall with the dog's chest. Before long, the fire drops to embers. Fenris finally moves.

With trembling hands, he pulls the sheets back and slips underneath. Wolfsbane makes a noise in his sleep. Fenris covers himself and lays stiff, afraid to move.

Fenris stays like this for several minutes. The house is silent. Only the soft noises of Camellia shifting or Wolfsbane snoring disturb the air. Fenris feels the tension start to ease from his muscles. The mattress is incredibly comfortable; he rolls so his back is to the dog and Camellia. The exhaustion catches up to him, and within a few more minutes he is asleep.

The morning comes, and Fenris wakes slowly. The sunlight is beginning to peek through the curtains of the Hawke estate, and Fenris remembers with a start where he is..

At some point in the night, Wolfsbane must have left the comfort of the bed to be let out by someone in the house. Fenris can hear him barking somewhere outside. In his wake, he left Fenris and Camellia to stretch across the bed for one another. They were cautiously touching, as though nervous even in their sleep. Their hands were laying together; their knees pulled to a bend and barely brushing one another. Camellia’s face is so close to Fenris’s, he holds his breath for a brief moment. He exhales shakily, and he moves from the bed. He wastes no time in gathering his things and leaving.

When Camellia wakes, Fenris and Wolfsbane are both gone. She sits up, stretching. Idly, she wonders how Fenris slept. There is an answer, as her eyes catch a torn-out piece of paper tucked into the frame of her dresser mirror. On it, in Fenris’s uncertain handwriting, is written, ‘Thank you. Fenris.’


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter made me soft...love pining idiots

One night, after a day of their usual incidents, Camellia and Fenris follow one another to The Hanged Man. She had mentioned in passing that she was going to Lowtown to toss a few drinks back, and Fenris had said, easily, “I’ll join you.” Not a hint of hesitation in his voice or the words. It was simple. They were friends, and Fenris liked having a friend. He knew the others were his friends, namely Varric, Isabela and Sebastian. But with Camellia it was something else. He enjoyed it.

The Hanged Man was busy. The sun had just dipped past the sea, so there were plenty that had been there since midday and plenty more just getting started. They found themselves a small table in the corner, watching across the sea of drunks. A serving girl came by, asking what they’d like.

“Kocari Ale,” Camellia calls to her over the ruckus.

“Do you have Antivan red?” Fenris nearly shouts. The girl nods and sets off. She’s back quickly.

“Cheers.” Camellia reaches out her mug. Fenris hits his mug heartily against hers, and they both take substantial drinks. “I needed this.”

“I admit, so did I,” Fenris smiles. He settles against the chair, knees falling open. Camellia mimics the movement, throwing her elbow over the back of her seat. “I don’t think I’ve been out to enjoy myself since--”

“Since you got to Kirkwall?”

“You might be right.” Fenris takes another drink. His tongue swipes at the leftover wine on his lips. Camellia pointedly ignores it.

“That sounds like you,” she teases. Camellia receives a kick against her boot for the comment, and she laughs. “Though I don’t necessarily blame you. Your options are this dump or the Blooming Rose, and after enough times they just don’t do it anymore.”

Fenris tilts his head; his ears flick, and he grins. “Are you speaking from experience?”

Camellia takes a drink of her ale, trying to hide the blush creeping up her neck. “I’ve been here more than I’d like, so I’m quite confident in that,” she deflects, hoping Fenris will drop it.

Of course the bastard doesn’t. He is so delighted at her slip up that he leans forward, propping his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together. Fenris rests his chin on his intertwined fingers, and he raises his eyebrows. “The Blooming Rose?”

Camellia looks down into her drink and fakes a cough, pulling at the collar of her undershirt. “I may have been.”

“Apparently enough times to know it loses its charm,” he teases. Fenris is the one to earn a swift under-table kick this time, and he laughs, louder than she has heard him laugh before. It makes her knees wobble, despite the fact that she’s sitting down.

“You’re awfully smug about this!” Camellia flags down the serving girl. “Do you need another?”

Fenris grabs his mug and swallows the rest of his wine. A ruby red droplet slips past the corner of his mouth and runs across his skin. Camellia watches it until Fenris wipes it from his neck. “I do now.” The serving girl fills their drinks. “You must have been quite the regular. Camellia Hawke, little mage upstart, climbing the social ladder. But still needing an itch scratched.”

He’s so casual about it all. It makes her nervous. Guilty, even. But why? She’s never shied from conversations such as these before. “I take it you haven’t needed your itches scratched.” She so desperately wants to be off the subject.

Fenris shrugs, pursing his lips. “I haven’t given it thought.” Camellia furrows her brows over her mug at him. “It’s not like I’m missing anything.”

Camellia almost chokes on her ale. “Wait--so you’ve never…?”

“If I have, it was before my memories were lost. But since?” Fenris takes a drink. “Who would I trust?”

She considers what he says then nods. “I suppose that makes sense.” She hums to herself as the bard in the corner starts a song.

“So you’ve stopped going then.” Fenris says to her, with something in his voice she can’t name.

“Maker, you’re still on this,” she breathes, throwing her head back with a blush. “Yes,” she grits. “I stopped.”

“For...any particular reason?”

Camellia looks at Fenris. His green eyes, normally so guarded, are soft. They almost look hurt. She relents. “I’m...not sure.” Her voice shakes. “I just...I didn’t want to anymore. And I’m not sure why.”

Fenris thumbs along the rim of his mug. He nods. “Well,” he says suddenly, the softness in his demeanor replaced with cheekiness. “To the Blooming Rose. For losing a valued customer,” he teases.

“You’re such a bastard!” Camellia shouts. She slams her mug into his, and the ale and wine splash. They both flinch away from the alcohol, laughing.

For hours, the exact number lost to their drunkenness, the two drink and talk. They learn more than they’d learned in years. Some topics still skirt the edge of the conversation, going no deeper than basic answers. But Camellia tells wild stories of Ferelden, its greenery and the trouble her and the twins would get up to. Fenris speaks of the places he moved through on the run, and recounts fondly the people he met. They both drink too much, swaying in their chairs and leaning in too close and laughing far too loud. After The Hanged Man starts to quiet down, they decide to walk each other back to Hightown.

Fenris stumbles, and he follows Hawke. He is always following Hawke, he thinks, watching her body sway and trip through the streets. She’s singing a Ferelden song about Andraste having a mabari. Fenris realizes, with a dumb smile, that he enjoys following Hawke. There isn’t a place Camellia could take him that he would not walk behind her, every single step. She is his dearest friend, he thinks as he stumbles behind her. She reaches back, still singing, to grab his hand and drag him forward. She is more than his dearest friend, another part of him concedes.

Camellia whips around, and she grabs both of his hands. She moves her feet, and Fenris laughs, “What are you doing?”

“Dancing!” Camellia makes him move in ways that don’t make sense and almost certainly don’t count as dancing. But he moves with her, and she tosses her head to the sky and lets out a laugh, warm and loud.

“Let’s get you home.” Fenris is sobering as his thoughts chill him to the bone. “Come on.”

They make it to the outside of the Hawke manor. Camellia leans against the door, and she takes deep breaths of the chilly Kirkwall air. Fenris watches her, trying to ease his thundering heart. Camellia reaches out, and she takes his hand. With terrifying clarity, she murmurs, “I think I know why I stopped going to the Blooming Rose.”

“You do?” Fenris searches her face. He wants her to say something. He is afraid of her saying it.

Camellia sighs heavily, and she takes her hand away. She rubs her temples. “We drank too much.”

Fenris feels relief and frustration rolled together. “We did.”

Camellia’s head thumps against the door. “Maker, tomorrow is going to hurt.”

“Indeed.” Fenris takes a step back. “You should rest.”

“So should you,” she fires back. Her hand slaps at the handle to the door. “Thanks for coming.”

“I always enjoy time with a beautiful woman,” Fenris says, his voice rumbling.

Camellia’s heart thuds in her chest. “I--” She ducks her head to hide her smile and the growing redness on her face. “Hm.” She has to hold back the shiver on her spine. “I’ll see you soon then?”

Fenris smiles. “Of course you will.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: blood, stitches, violence

The stink of Darktown surrounds him. His hands are pressed into one another, and his leg bounces. He watches the dirt under his feet shift with his movements; it disturbs a small mouse that darts past him, searches desperately for a place to hide, then rush to a shadow where Fenris loses sight of it. The absence of life sunk him deep into his regret.

Fenris had walked her down to this Maker forsaken place with a lump in his throat. He knew of the tunnels in the old Hawke estate. He had marched her through them dutifully, feet cutting on old glass and broken nails. He could hardly speak when Anders had opened the door to the clinic; fortunately, he hadn’t needed to speak. The wound through Camellia’s still-bleeding body had said enough. Anders had taken her without a word to him and slammed the door shut in his face. That had been hours ago.

The sun begins to set. Fenris’s stomach aches with hunger, and he wants to rest his head somewhere soft. But he waits still. He cannot leave her. Some small part of his mind begs for her to speak, to laugh and knot his stomach in her frustratingly pleasant manner. But he resigns himself to the quiet. He bites his lip, tearing at the flesh until it threatens to bleed.

With the softest creak, Anders opens the door to the clinic Fenris picks his ears up, and he nearly leaps to his feet. A frown crosses his face as Anders motions to be quiet and slides the door shut behind him.

“She’s resting.”

“How is she?”

Anders looks visibly exhausted. His skin is nearly grey from the magic-inducted drain on his body. “She is...stable, I suppose.” He wipes blood from his hands, and Fenris makes a fist. “My magic helped, but the damage to her body was extensive. I used much of my healing supplies as well.” He narrows his eyes. “What happened to her?”

Fenris almost does not speak. He turns his head away, swallowing hard. Anders watches him with steely blue eyes, and Fenris gives in. “I was following a lead on Hadrianna. I...asked her to accompany me.” A long pause. He is certain his face is giving away his emotions. “We were ambushed. Some sort of enchanted smoke. A few assassins.” Fenris clenches his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut as he remembers. “She took a sword all the way through.”

Anders’s breath catches in his throat. He shudders, murmuring, “Makers breath.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. He takes time to consider. “I would like to keep her here for a few days. She needs to be monitored closely, and her wounds need constant care. They are at risk of rupturing open at any moment.”

They share a silence. There, for once, is no animosity between them. They share their grief quietly and almost as friends. “She should be at home,” Fenris says at last. His voice is hoarse.

“I can’t release her.”

“She should be at home.” Fenris turns to pace. His body is tight as a drawn bow. His eyes flick naturally to the shadows, looking for an exit. After several moments, he stops and looks at the door to the clinic. “Can I see her?”

“Fenris, I told you, she’s sleeping.”

“I know, I--” Fenris faces Anders. He begs with his eyes. “Please.”

Sighing and giving a slight shake of his head, Anders sets his hand on the door to the clinic. “Don’t wake her.” He pushes it open. Fenris says nothing as he presses inside. He feels his chest tighten, threatening to spill open as he finds her among the beds.

Camellia lays still on a small cot in the corner of the clinic. She looks frighteningly pale, her lips nearly blue. Bandages wind around the entirety of her torso; the white cloth is already growing dark, and Fenris runs a hand through his hair in distress. He takes soft steps over to where she lies, and he sits on a bucket turned upside down.

For a long time, Fenris does nothing. He sits dumbly, jaw slack as though he wants to speak but knows he shouldn’t. Camellia’s chest shivers with each taken breath. The blood continues to pool under her bandages, and before long, Anders comes by with a fresh set.

“If you’re going to be here,” he starts, fingers finding the place he had secured her wrappings. “You may as well help.” Fenris looks up at him, eyes glazed. “Hold her up.”

“I--I can’t--” His voice wavers. Shame burns in his throat, threatening to spill like bile. He did this to her. He should not touch her. He is monstrous, a plague to the people he cares for--

Anders breaks him from his monologue. “Hold her,” he grits.

Fenris slowly obliges. He stands and, with Anders’s help, slips his palms under her shoulders. He straddles the head of the cot, and as he sits, he raises her to nearly a sitting position. In her sleep, she whines, the pain undoubtedly blinding even like this. Fenris feels his chest grow hollow at the sound. Anders unwinds the bandages, several layers thick, and he mutters incomprehensibly as he does so. When the last gooey piece drops away, Fenris almost shouts.

Camellia is torn open from the bottom of her shoulder blade down past the bend of her waist. The wound oozes blood even between the threads Anders had stitched through her skin. Fenris drags his eyes over the blossoming purple and blue bruises that follow the knife cut. Anders steps back to assess the front of her body and shakes his head. “Keep her still.” Then he is gone.

When he returns, he holds a soaking piece of fabric in each hand. He gives one to Fenris, and they set to work cleaning her wound. Fenris watches the red run down, dripping onto his leggings and into his boots. The tension in his shoulders eases as the hum of Anders’s magic visibly stops the oozing blood and tightens the seam through her body.

“She’ll be fine.”

The assurance comes out of nowhere, and it startles Fenris. He looks up at Anders, his eyes glowing slightly from the use of his magic.

“You’re sick as a dog worrying about her. But she’ll be fine.” Anders drops his cloth and unravels the bandages.

“She’s strong,” Fenris says. He watches the bandages wind over her wound.

“That’s an understatement,” Anders snorts. “I’m sure she’ll be awake in a day's time and be wondering if you’re alright.”

There’s something in his voice that makes Fenris feel like he’s been slapped. “What?”

Anders chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he wraps Camellia. “I don’t quite know what she sees in you, but that’s not my place. She is a dear friend. I would like to keep it that way.”

Fenris feels his blood go inexplicably cold. His spine is liquid in his back, and he can’t hold in the shiver. As Anders finishes wrapping the bandage, he secures it against her side. The two move to lay Camellia back down. Blessedly, no blood flows this time. Anders wipes the sweat from his brow, starting to sway from the overuse of his power. “I’m going to lie down. There are blankets behind you if it gets cold.” Without another word, Anders stumbles away to his chambers.

Fenris is still. He fixes his eyes on Camellia’s face. For once, he has all the time in the world to admire her. With his gaze, he traces the freckles that spatter across her features. They concentrate deeply across the bridge of her nose. It crooks to the side from an old break. A small smile twitches onto his face as he follows the point down to her cracked lips. They are crusted with blood, hiding the soft curve.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs, sincere. His voice is low, rumbling. She breathes easier now, no rattle in her exhale. But still, he is chewed open by guilt. “I should not have allowed you to come with me. My past is my own. To allow it to harm you now…”

As though she heard him, Camellia makes a soft noise in her throat. She turns toward the sound of his voice, fingers twitching, and Fenris feels his heart flutter against his ribs. He watches clumps of her hair, sticky with blood, fall into her face. He reaches up and pushes the pieces away. He has always been fascinated by her hair. Clipped as short as a soldier’s with soft, russet waves on top. Fenris thinks she could be a painting on the walls of chantry, even in a state such as this.

He is reminded, suddenly, of what Anders had said and he finds a lump in his throat. What she sees in you. The implications are too much. Fenris admits that he wanted it to be true. He had found his heart aching for her when it should not. He found her smile, her laughter, infectious, keeping him awake well into night. But to think she should return those feelings...Fenris swallows at the thought of her starting at her ceiling, him on her mind.

“You are entirely infuriating,” he mutters, but there is no venom in his words. A mage. A Maker-forsaken mage twining his heartstrings so easily around her fingers and plucking. But oh, Andraste, how he adores it. Fenris settles his back against the wall and closes his eyes. “Fenedhis.”

In the morning, Anders finds him still sleeping, head hanging down and arms crossed. Camellia is awake, turned on her aching side to look at him, smiling. Her hand dangles off the edge of the cot and is swinging gently.

“How are you feeling?” he asks in a whisper.

“I’m alright.” Anders can hear the soft crackle of her magic in the air, slowly healing herself. “It was bad, wasn’t it?” When Anders nods, she hums to herself. She looks back at Fenris. “Has he been here all night?”

“Every moment.”

Camellia smiles, blinking slowly. “Was he alright?”

“Healthy as a horse.”

“Good.” She settles back and sighs. “Good.”

Anders watches her fall back into sleep. He covers them both with scratchy blankets and leaves to tend his clinic. “Idiots,” he murmurs. “The both of them.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> changed the title of this work because i feel like this fits better.

It isn’t long after Camellia is well enough to go home that matters needing her attention crop up. She wonders, frustrated, what the point is of having a city guard (and templar dogs) if they leave everything in the city to a foreign apostate. She does her best to avoid the knocks at the door and the letters piling up, still nursing the wound that split her near in half, but there is one notice she cannot ignore.

Varric comes by late one night while Camellia is sifting through the mail by the fire. She is dressed in loose sleepwear, and the shadows under her eyes are dark. He hands her a letter. “You’re going to want to see this.”

“I don’t like that tone of yours,” she says, barely teasing. Something is wrong, and it is obvious. She opens the folds of the letter, and her eyebrows raise slowly as she reads. “She’s here?”

Varric shrugs, hands open toward the ceiling. “Apparently.”

“I--what--are we sure?” Her hands are gripping the paper tightly; the sweat from her thumbs is smudging some of the ink.

“It’s one of my guys. You think I have time for liars?” Varric rubs the back of his neck and turns from her. “They don’t know how long she’s been in Kirkwall or when she might leave. We need to get Fenris and now.”

“I know.” Camellia does not stand.

“You’re still in bad shape, Freckles,” Varric says. The concern in his voice is thick. “You don’t have to go.”

“I do.” She stands, gritting her teeth. “I have to do this.”

Varric isn’t stupid. They’ve never discussed it at length, but he knows his closest friend. He can read her plainly, has his favorite moments with her dog-eared and has memorized her mannerisms. This is no exception. He only sighs, cursing her internally. “I know you do.” Camellia gets up, avoids his eyes, and she marches upstairs for her armor.

When they get to Fenris’s house, Camellia opens the door without knocking. She calls his name, some of her nerves breaking the steady sound of her voice. Fenris, never a heavy sleeper, is out in moments. Camellia can’t avoid staring for a moment. They’re all over, she thinks, tracing the lyrium tattoos with her eyes down to where they disappear beneath the waistband of his trousers.

“What’s wrong?” Fenris lifts the shirt in his hands, pulling it on quickly.

“This.” Varric holds up the letter to show Fenris. “Source in Tevinter says Hadriana is here.”

Some of the blood visibly drains from Fenris’s face. “In Kirkwall?”

“Outside it,” Camellia says. “She’s in some old slaver’s caves on the Wounded Coast.”

His lip twitches into a curl of disgust. “Of course she is.” Fenris turns. “I’ll be ready in a moment.”

“Are you sure you want to do this right now?” Camellia asks, voice soft.

“I can’t afford to let her get away,” Fenris snaps, continuing back toward his room. He nearly slams the door behind him, leaving Camellia and Varric to fidget in his wake.

True to his word, Fenris is ready incredibly quickly. The three of them move through the city quietly to keep from attracting any attention that might slow them down. Camellia leads the way, as she so often does, and Fenris keeps pace with Varric right behind her. They trudge down to the coast, following the paths beaten down by others long before them.

“Think I’ve got something,” Camellia says over her shoulder. In the sand are hoofprints and wagon tracks. “They head that way, up towards the base of the mountain.”

“That’s probably where the holding caves are,” Fenris mutters. “If this is her caravan, we can’t be far.” He unsheathes the greatsword on his back. “We’ll need to be careful. These are designed to keep people in and out.”

“Out?” Camellia echoes, confused.

“What better way to acquire slaves than by stealing them?” Fenris passes Camellia, taking point for the first time, and Camellia watches him quietly before following. She unhooks her staff from the leather strap between her shoulders, trying to ignore the twinge in her muscles at the movement.

“You okay?” Varric asks softly; he adjusts Bianca in his hands, pulling back and fitting a bolt into the crossbow.

“Nervous about this one, Varric.” The admittance nearly shocks the dwarf into silence.

“It’s your first fight since you were, I don’t know, turned into cheese. I’m glad you’re nervous. Otherwise I’d have to worry about you being stupid again.”

“Thanks for that.” She rolls her eyes, trying to hide her smile. “Let’s just get this done with. I hate when we have to go into caves.”

“You and me both, Freckles.”

They move in silence for the rest of the trek. The nightbirds wail as they pass, taking flight when they come too close. The sounds of the sea lapping at the shore start to fade as they climb higher. Finally, blessedly, lit torches at the entrance of a cave signal that they’ve made it. Fenris halts outside the entrance, sword gripped tightly in his hand. Camellia sidles up beside him, and they say nothing for a few long heartbeats.

“We should go.” Fenris shifts from one foot to the other. “Before she has a chance to leave.”

“Something is wrong, Fenris,” Camellia murmurs. “Why isn’t anyone out here? Why aren’t there guards?”

“She probably thinks she doesn’t need any,” he snarls. “She’s always been stuck up her own arse. I doubt she thinks anyone knows she’s here.”

Camellia feels uneasy. She wants to run, her chest tight with anxiety. “This isn’t right.”

“I’m not leaving until I have that bitch’s heart in my hands.” Fenris presses inside quickly, leaving Camellia and Varric having to nearly run to catch up.

There is a heavy stillness on the inside of the holding cave. There are tracks of dirt throughout and evidence of small fire pits littered along the floor. Blankets are still left behind, but, unnervingly, there is no indication of life within. Fenris hardly seems to notice or care. He moves forward with intent, both hands wrapped tightly around the pommel of his sword. He keeps it ready as he moves, ears flicking in the low light as he listens for something to follow.

“Stop.” He dips his head low to focus on something unheard to both Camellia and Varric. “This way.” He takes them down a corridor with fresh vigor. Whatever he’d heard keeps him moving quickly until the hallway opens into a large room, moonlight spilling in from the opening in the top.

Bodies are littered about. Blood, still wet, runs through the cracks in the tiles. A soft noise can be heard coming from a shadowed corner.

“Is that…” Camellia whispers. “Crying?”

“Who’s there?” Fenris shouts. “Show yourself, now!”

The weeping stops. “Please don’t hurt me!”

Camellia runs forward, puts her hand on Fenris’s arm and presses. He lowers his sword at her touch. “Come out.”

A small elf girl scrambles into the light on her hands and knees. There’s blood on her skin, and her cheeks are hollow with hunger. “Who are you? Are you with mistress Hadriana?”

“No,” Fenris spits. “Where is she?”

Tears well up in the girl’s eyes. “She left me here. She said someone was coming for her. She cut so many of her people, of us. My papa--” She hiccups. “She used his blood to hide herself. But I don’t know why.” She stands up, hugging herself as tears run across her dirt-covered cheeks. “She loved Papa’s soup. She loved him. He was her favorite. Why did she do that?”

Camellia moves closer to the young girl. “I’m so sorry. What’s your name?”

“Orana.” She drops her gaze, almost instinctively. “Everything was good until today.”

“No it wasn’t,” Fenris murmurs. His voice is thick with sadness. He turns away from the two of them. “She’s gone. Let’s go.”

“We’re not leaving her here, Fenris,” Camellia snaps, electricity crackling in the air. Her staff glows softly.

“Are you my mistress now?” Orana asks Camellia quietly.

“No, she is not!” Fenris shouts, spinning around. His face is tight with anger.

“You can come to my home,” Camellia offers. She puts her hand out. “We’ll get you a hot bath and some food. And then we can go from there.”

“A slave?” Fenris is incredulous. “You--”

“She is not a slave.” Thunder rumbles within the cave. “Don’t ever imply that about me, Fenris. If you don’t know me better than that by now--” Another crack of thunder. Camellia’s staff is blindingly bright. “Then don’t bother.”

Without another word to him, Camellia leads Orana from the cave. Varric tosses a look to Fenris. It is disappointment married with pity, and he leaves after Camellia. Fenris watches the shadows engulf the three of them. Blood runs down the slanted floor of the cave, pooling around his feet, and he stands there, utterly alone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: sex scene

On a rare day free of conflict, not long after settling Orana into the home, Camellia takes her to the market. They spend the day sifting through fruit baskets, fresh clothing for Orana, and other home necessities. Camellia can’t admit how much it aches her heart to have the girl around. She reminds her so staunchly of Bethany that some nights it leaves her nearly in tears. She pays her weekly, but that doesn’t stop her from taking her for trips and having little moments of sisterhood that help Orana feel more like a person.

They are passing through the main door of the estate, laughing loudly about a man with a moustache shaped almost into a full circle, when they sober at the sight of someone in the foyer.

“Fenris,” Camellia says. It’s meant to be cold, but there is a breath of relief in her words. She steps in front of Orana like she’d done for Bethany so many times before. “Go ahead,” she murmurs to her.

“I’ll take the food to the kitchen,” Orana whispers back, taking the wicker basket from Camellia’s hand and shuffling quickly away from the tension.

Silence overtakes them, and Fenris rubs his chin with a single hand. “I wanted to apologize.” Camellia says nothing, her steely gaze fixing him in place. “I knew--I _know_ \--you would never take her as a slave. I just...being that close to Hadriana--” He sighs deeply. The fist in his lap clenches and unclenches. “It dredged up old wounds. It felt like I had never been free. Like I had to be cautious around everyone I ever met again.” He stands, turning his eyes to the ground. “It is no excuse. And I do not expect forgiveness from you.”

Camellia searches his features; he finally turns to face her, and she realizes he is much closer than she had thought. She can see each individual eyelash. Her body is too warm, and she tries to focus on the matter at hand. “Thank you for apologizing.”

“It is the very least I can do. I was angry and implying that of you was unfair.” His eyes are soft. “You are my friend, and I should not have spoken that way of you.”

Camellia can’t stop the words from falling off her tongue. “Just your friend?” It’s meant to be teasing, but it’s achingly serious. Her face grows hot. _Maker, strike me down,_ she begs.

The corner of Fenris’s lip pulls up in a smile--no, a smirk, Camellia realizes as her blood roars in her ears. He chuckles low in his throat, and she wants to crawl into a hole. “For now, I suppose.”

 _For now._ It takes hold of her throat and nearly chokes her. She can do nothing but set her bottom lip between her teeth. Fenris flicks his eyes down to observe the motion. Camellia swears she hears his breath hitch. She feels pulled toward him, but she doesn’t dare to move. “Never been one to be kept waiting.”

Fenris drops his head slightly. The tip of his nose is nearly touching hers. His smile has only widened. “My apologies, then.”

A crash can be heard from the kitchen. Orana shrieks, “Wolfsbane!” and the telltale sound of the mabari’s nails on the floor comes scrambling towards the two of them. The war dog barks happily before slamming his body into Fenris who digs in his heels to keep from falling over. Camellia grabs Wolfsbane’s collar.

“Down, boy!” she shouts. “Andraste’s tits, you know better than to pull this nonsense!”

“Language, Camellia!” Leandra is following after Wolfsbane, wiping her hands of dirt. She, presumably, had been in the back garden with the dog, and they were now both here to cause quite the scene. “Oh! Hello, there.”

Fenris nods to Leandra, peeling the mabari off his chest. He pats the barrel of the dog’s chest loudly, to which Wolfsbane grumbles in a pleased manner. “I was just leaving,” he says, straightening himself. “It was good to see you.”

Camellia looks at him; his green eyes are sparkling, and there’s the faintest hint of a smile still on his features. She smiles back. “Come back soon.”

“I will.”

Camellia watches him leave until the front door shuts completely. She turns back around and tenses up as she faces Leandra who says, “Go help in the kitchen. It’s already late. You should know better than to stay out so long.”

A long pause. She looks her up and down. “And stop bringing that elf boy around. He’ll keep coming back if you do.”

 _Good_. She thinks, bitter, as she walks to the kitchen under a harsh winter gaze.

That night, after dinner is finished, Camellia helps Orana wash the dishes.

“Thank you for helping, mistress,” she says, smiling.

“Oh, ew, don’t call me that,” Camellia says, making a face. “Call me Camellia. You might work for the house, but I’m hardly a ‘mistress.’”

Orana giggles. “Of course.” They work quietly until Orana speaks again. “That elf that came earlier. Who is he?”

“Fenris?” She smiles. “He’s a friend of mine. You remember him from when we found you, yeah?” Orana nods. “Fenris was a slave, too. We were looking for Hadriana.”

“To kill her?”

Camellia clears her throat. “Yeah. To kill her.”

Orana places a plate down to dry. On the last dish, Orana blurts, “Are you in love with him?”

Camellia stretches her hands out, closing her eyes and stammering, “I--uh, am I--what?”

“Well, you just seem to be so--I don’t know.” Orana puts the dish down and gestures with her hands. “You seemed so light when you came to help with dinner. Like you were walking on a cloud. I’ve never seen people in love, only heard about it from papa, but that feels like something people in love do.”

Camellia is struck with speechlessness. She wants to say something, even opens her mouth dumbly. No sound comes out. After an uncomfortable amount of time, she finally clears her throat and finds her voice again. “I don’t know. I--do think he’s _handsome_ , but _love_ \--” She shakes her head. When she hears another giggle, she makes a face at Orana. “You--Maker, you little demon.”

“Goodnight, mistress!” She runs off, delighted.

“I told you--oh, whatever.” Camellia balls her hands into fists and rubs her eyes. “Shit.”

The sound of the front door opening and closing pulls her from whatever thoughts she may have started worrying about. She drapes the cloth she’d been using to clean the dishes across the lip of the wash bin. She wipes her palms on the back of her trousers, and she makes her way to the front of the house.

Sitting on the bench in the foyer, the same as earlier in the evening, is Fenris. His leg is bouncing rapidly, and he is watching his hands wring together.

“Fenris?”

He stands up, still looking down. “I couldn’t--I had to. I had to come back and see you.” Camellia’s chest feels too small for her fluttering heart. “Command me to go, and I shall.”

Camellia does not wait. “Fenris.” He looks up at her. “Stay. Please.”

Fenris surges forward as though invisible bonds have snapped from his arms. His hands grip each side of her face, and his lips find hers. Camellia finds purchase around his waist, hands splayed across his back. Fenris keeps stepping until Camellia’s back hits against the wall. She arches off the cold stone, wanting as much of her body on his as she can manage. Fenris swipes his tongue over her bottom lip, and Camellia can’t stop from making a noise in her throat. She pulls him tighter against her until they are flush. The armor she didn’t realize he was wearing pinches at her clothes, and she breaks from the kiss.

“You are--” Fenris nearly shivers against her. His thumbs run over her cheeks; his forehead taps against hers, and Camellia closes her eyes. “I want--” He drops to press his mouth against her neck. “I want to _feel_ you, Camellia.”

“Maker,” she breathes, writhing against the stone wall. “Get upstairs before I fall apart in front of the whole house.”

Fenris laughs into her neck; his teeth nip slowly at her skin before he steps away. Camellia grips his arm like she is afraid he’ll leave and scrambles up the stairs. He slams her door shut behind them, and Camellia unfastens the buckles on his armor. He shrugs the plate armor to the ground with a loud clatter. Camellia tosses a ball of magic toward the fireplace and it roars to life.

“You don’t have to do this,” Camellia says, turning back to him.

Fenris’s hands slide down the sides of her body, nestling in the bend of her waist. He takes one step forward. Her foot moves back in response. “I know.”

“Are you certain?” Another step backward.

“More certain than I have been in a while.” Another step.

“Fenris--” The backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed.

“Camellia.”

Her breath hitches, and she drops down to sit on the mattress. It squeaks softly. Fenris cups one hand around her cheek, then moves so he grips her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Your eyes are breathtaking.”

Before she can respond, Fenris places his palms on either side of her hips and pulls his knee up between her thighs. They open for him as she scoots backwards onto the bed. Her mouth catches his in a kiss, and she threads her fingers in his white hair. Camellia holds his body against hers and uses her knees to grip his sides, tumbling to one side of the bed and placing herself smugly on top of the elf. She drags her pelvis across his, earning a hiss from below.

“Let me see you,” she breathes; her hands slide up his undershirt, helping it over his head. Her fingertips drag down between the lyrium lines. Fenris grits his teeth. “Do they hurt?”

“Somewhat--ah!” Her fingers prod under the waistband of his pants. “Just--don’t dig into them.”

“I won’t.” Her voice is low, washing over him like warm water. “Maker’s breath,” she mutters. Fenris watches her explore his skin. She traces the outlines of the markings with care. She finds scars, both old and new, and commits them to memory, fearful she might wake up from a dream at any moment. Fenris shifts underneath her. Without a word, he closes his fists around the hem of her shirt; Camellia hunches lower, letting him slip the fabric off.

“Fenhedis,” he whispers. Fenris sits up, holding Camellia steady. His hand comes around, uncertain, covering her breast with his palm. “You are the most incredible woman I have ever met.”

“Fuck, Fenris.” Her vision swims from the headiness of his voice. She presses down against him, begging with her body. “I think I--” She can’t say it. Not yet. It’s too fast, and she wants to slow down, drink him in. “Oh, Maker.”

He closes his mouth around his shoulder, pressing a wet, warm kiss on the freckles there. He wants to wade here in her forever. He leaves more kisses across the expanse of Camellia; it feels like fire. Her magic, called to life from the sheer intensity of what she is feeling, hums in the air. Fenris swears he can feel little sparks jump from her skin.

Camellia reaches between them, palms shakily at his trousers. He moans into her. They slip apart briefly and lose the rest of their clothes. Camellia drops to her knees between his thighs. She closes her mouth around him; her grey eyes fix on his face as she swallows him slowly. He swears in a language she doesn’t know, and it makes her warm. Her tongue coaxes noises from him that Fenris didn’t know he could make; her hand reaches between her own thighs while she works him to pieces. Fenris can’t stop himself, gripping the short waves on the top of her head as he comes undone. She buries her nose against his skin, chokes on him as he nearly loses his breath. He shakes. She lets him go.

Her arm wipes along her mouth. Camellia leaves kisses against his thighs in her wake, unable to ignore how he trembles. Once his eyes focus again, he sweeps her in his arms, dropping her like an enemy. She gasps out a giggle before his fingertips find the wetness at her core. Camellia arches her back as he feels inside her, stretches and strokes. Fenris sinks his teeth into her shoulder; his hips rut against her leg. He is ready again, and the reminder is firm on her skin.

“Fenris,” she murmurs. She latches her fingers around his arms; he pulls his wrist away, and she swings her leg. They tumble to the other side of the bed, and Camellia settles on top of him. She holds him steady, and she sinks down onto the length of him. Fenris inhales like he’s breached the surface of the ocean. Something in his eyes flickers; Camellia plants one foot on the mattress, and she fucks him as though her life depends on it. He is scrabbling against her skin; red lines follow his nails. Camellia scrapes against the skin of his chest. Blue sparks lick from her body to his, and there is the sound of low thunder in the room.

Camellia squeezes around him, nearly bringing tears to her eyes as her climax builds. Fenris pushes her leg out, forcing her to lay against him. Fenris digs his heels in, fucking up into her. “Camellia--” He sputters a swear. She falls apart for him, coming as he strokes her so thoroughly. The way she cries his name, devout and earnest, sends him falling after her. His hips snap flush to hers, and he throws his head back.

When he finally uncoils, arms sliding away from her, Camellia moves off, dropping onto the cool sheets with a whine. Her eyes flutter; she looks over at Fenris who is watching her with something she can’t place. She frowns. “What is it?”

WIthout a word, Fenris stands, and he starts to gather his clothing. She sits up and rests against the pillows. “What’s wrong, Fenris?”

“Nothing.” He tugs his trousers on, then his shirt. “I just--”

“No,” Camellia stops him. “You’re not lying to me. Not after that. Just tell me if it was awful, and we’ll go from there.”

Fenris can’t stop the small laugh before he sobers. “No, I--it was good.”

Camellia snorts, “Good?”

Fenris grits his teeth and shakes his head once. “No. That--” He sighs, gathering himself. “That was...unlike anything I could have imagined. It was--” A dreamy look passes over him. Camellia softens.

“Then what’s wrong, Fenris?” She swings her aching legs over the bed.

He blinks slowly, turning to look at the fire. He slips his armor on and tightens the fastenings. “Something happened.” She stands and touches his arm; he recoils. “I remembered. I remembered it all, Camellia.”

“I don’t--”

“From before.” His eyes are frightened, wide like he wants to run. “I could remember everything, all at once, and it just...it’s gone again.”

“Oh, Fenris,” Camellia breathes. Her hands cover her mouth. “I--I’m so sorry. Maybe I can help, I can--”

“No!” He steps away from her. He holds one palm up. “No, I--I can’t. I…” He steels himself. “I need to go.”

“Don’t.” A wave of cold rolls over her body. Camellia tries to swallow the panic rising in her throat. “Please don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” It is genuine. It echoes with grief. “I thought I could do this, thought maybe--” He turns from her.

“I love you,” she cries, her voice barely a whisper. Tears are pooling on her lids. “Don’t do this, Fenris.”

She can see the way his shoulders tighten. Camellia feels her heart becoming ash in her chest. Fenris speaks again. “I’m sorry, Camellia.” He keeps walking.

Camellia wobbles in her knees and in her faith. The sound of the front door slamming shut forces her to drop. A wail leaves her throat, raw and ragged. She screams to be struck down for the second time that night. She kneels there, palms pressed into the tile. No one comes.


	12. Chapter 12

Camellia tries to fill her hollow heart with anything she can. She writes a letter to Carver, pays a courier a hefty fee to find him and deliver it. She drinks too much too often. She throws herself into Kirkwall’s messes, and she ends up spending more time in Anders’s clinic than her own home. Her freckles disappear behind bruises and dried blood, but it still hurts less than the empty space in her chest.

Camellia trudges into Anders’s clinic after one such excursion; blood is drying on her cut lip, and she holds her side where she suspects some ribs are heavily bruised. Anders looks up from the patient he is tending to and sighs. Once he finishes, he walks up to Camellia with a glint of anger obious in his eyes.

“Hey,” she mumbles.

“No. I’m not doing this.” He folds his arms. “Get out.”

“What?” Camellia feels like she’s been slapped across the face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean get out. I’m done enabling you. You’ve got to stop doing reckless things.” Anders pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t--I’ll pay you. You don’t have to just do this for nothing--”

“Maker’s breath, Camellia, it isn’t about the money.” He’s almost shouting. She can see his hurt. “I’m tired of watching you hurt yourself over that damned elf.”

Camellia bristles. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Anders throws his hands up. “And you _still_ defend him! I can’t believe you.” He paces. “I’m not healing you. You’ve got the magic. Do it yourself. I’m not being part of your self-destruction anymore.”

He stomps away, and Camellia stares after him, dumbfounded. Camellia turns and leaves; feet dragging with her exhaustion. The moon is high over the city; as she walks, guilt begins to chew on her bones. In her desperation to feel something other than her grief, she had put her friends in danger and subjected them to watching her bleed. She sighs, wiping some of the dirt off her hands on a red sash tied on her waist.

Camellia climbs the stone stairs up to Hightown, listening to the sounds of the nightime. Some music from some sort of get-together drifts down from an open window. There’s almost no one out at this time, save for a few individuals rushing home from a bar or The Blooming Rose. Camellia sees the front door of the estate, and she grits her teeth. Thinking about hearing her mother shriek at her and fending off Wolfsbane’s body slams makes her turn her feet and walk the opposite way.

She passes the turn to Fenris’s home, almost glancing to see if any lights flickered in the windows. But she pressed forward. The chantry loomed over her as her boots clicked up each step. Camellia gasps for breath at the top, her bruised ribs screaming in pain. She shoves the door open with her shoulder, and it swings shut behind her.

Candles are dutifully lit along the hall and at the base of the statue in the center. A few chantry sisters are awake, sitting in a small room. They fold their hands, and nod to her. Some sort of silent vigil, Camellia assums. She walks further down the hall, toward the statue of Andraste, and she nearly goes cold when she gets closer.

Kneeling at the base, head bowed and mumbling softly, is a body she couldn’t forget if she tried. She watches him, head and heart swirling with emotion. The candlelight flickers, bouncing off his armor and turning his white hair gently golden. She wants to grab him, press a kiss to his mouth. She wants to scream and slam her fists against him. But she does nothing. She only stares while she shivers.

Fenris’s ears flick; he lifts his head, sensing someone is staring. As he stands and turns, reaching for his broadsword, his eyes widen a little at the sight of her. “Camellia.” It rushes from his mouth, and her eyes sting at the sound of his voice.

“Fenris.” She can’t hide the tenderness. She kicks herself for how easily her anger fades. She should be angry. But she can’t be. Not when it’s him.

“Are you alright? Why are you here?”

“To be fair,” she says, walking closer to the statue. “I could ask you the same.”

Fenris looks sheepish, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Yes, well--” He clears his throat. “Sebastian has been insisting I visit.”

Camellia raises an eyebrow. “Must have been quite convincing. I never thought you’d step foot in here.”

“Oh please. Just because you burst into flames near holy ground doesn’t mean all of us do.”

Camellia pauses. Then she laughs. She laughs so hard it hurts her bruised ribs, and she nearly falls onto her ass. Tears well in her eyes, and Fenris grins at the sight of her undone with giggles. He laughs, too, chin tucked to his chest to hide it, but she hears anyway. She finally forces her laughter under control when one of the sisters pokes out from the vigil room and presses a finger to her lips angrily. She thumbs away the blood streaming down from the freshly opened cut and smiles.

“Maker’s breath,” she sighs, still content. She grabs at her aching ribs and flinches.

“Are you alright?” Fenris takes a step closer, reaches a hand out but stops.

“Got roughed up on the Sundermount today. You know, big nasty spiders and the like.” She chews the side of her tongue. “Need to heal but don’t want to go home.”

“Come stay at the mansion tonight,” he says. Camellia blinks, and then he folds his ears down. “I’m sorry--I understand if you do not wish to see me any longer.”

Camellia aches in the pit of her soul at the thought. Despite the way things had gone last time, seeing Fenris and hearing his voice put her at ease like nothing else had been able to. “No,” she murmurs, soft, thick with the love she still holds. “I’d like that.”

Fenris looks at her. His green eyes are beautiful, shining brilliantly in the candlelight. Something washes over his face, and he nods. “Of course.”

They leave the chantry, and the short walk to his home is silent. Fenris opens the front door for her, and she follows the stairs up to the little den. She collapses into the closest chair, and she groans, scrunching her face up. Fenris rushes to her side and kneels.

“What is it?” His eyes search her.

“My ribs.” She bares her teeth; her head falls back. “Fuck--Maker’s _arse_.” She moves her hands to her side, and her healing magic crackles to life. Fenris stands, and he touches her shoulder lightly.

“Let me make something for you.” He moves before she can protest.

In the distance, she can hear pots clanging together. She closes her eyes while she eases her ribs back together. What she had thought were bruised ribs were definitely fractured. She could feel them slip against one another and mend as she worked. Her breathing hitches at the burst of pain sending lights dancing behind her eyelids. Finally, her body no longer burns, and she exhales heavily.

Fenris returns, carrying a bowl in each hand. Steam rises from them, and Camellia’s stomach growls loud enough that Fenris cracks the barest smile. “Don’t get too excited. It’s nothing to write about.”

Camellia extends her hands, wiggling her fingers excitedly nonetheless. “You underestimate the day I’ve had.” She takes the bowl and eagerly spoons the thin broth into her mouth. It is both bland and entirely too salty all at once. The potatoes are sad looking, and there are shreds of unidentifiable meat floating aimlessly. But she means it when she looks up at Fenris and murmurs, “It’s lovely.”

Fenris only hums in response as he fishes out a potato lump. They eat in silence. Camellia flicks her eyes to Fenris for only seconds at a time. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his skin looks paler. The house is covered in dust, clothes tossed idly. She wonders if his kitchen is equally messy, stinking of rotting food,

“What have you been up to?” she finally asks, words tight with awkwardness. She peers past the bowl at him as she lifts it to her mouth to slurp some of the broth.

“Odd jobs,” he admits. “Anything that brings coin in.” He stirs his soup idly. “And you?”

“The usual. Kirkwall is still a shitshow, so.” She shrugs. “There’s talk of a man killing women in the city.”

“Lovely.” Fenris sneers.

Camellia nods. She scoops the last scraps of meat out of the bottom of the bowl then sets it aside. “Thank you for this.”

Fenris looks down at his feet. “It is the least I could do.”

Camellia feels tight in her chest. She picks at a scab on the back of her hand until it bleeds. “I’ve missed you.” It tumbles from her mouth before she can stop it. Her eyes sting, but she squeezes them shut before anything falls. She doesn’t wait for Fenris to respond. “I’ll leave you be. The guest room right?”

Fenris stares into nothingness, fingers gripping his thighs until his knuckles go white. He finally nods, muttering, “There’s clothes in there. For you.”

Camellia traces the cracks in the tile with her eyes, then she turns and leaves him there. She takes the stairs quickly, and when she enters the guest room, she gasps; she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. Tears well and, this time, she lets them fall. Camellia strips off her armor and down to her underthings. She sifts through the drawers, and she is surprised at what she finds.

In the dresser, there are real clothes. No moth-eaten pants. No threadbare shirts. There are soft, new nightclothes and pants and shirts, both long sleeve and short. She lifts up one such shirt and tugs it on over her head. It fits. It fits _wonderfully_.

Camellia drops onto the bed, disbelief making her body shake. The longer she looks down at the shirt she wears, the wider her smile grows. She tucks herself under the sheets, crashing quickly as the weight of her exhaustion pulls at her body.

In the morning, Camellia is startled at the sight of a body in the corner of the room. Fenris is slumped over in a chair, arms folded, and sleeping heavily. As she wakes, she sits up and sees a plate of plain bread and a hefty wedge of cheese. She eats quietly as not to disturb Fenris; she watches his chest rise and fall, her body light at the sight of him.

Camellia catches the sight of something on one of his wrists as he shifts in the chair. It is a band of red cloth tied there. She looks down at her armor, and she sees that the cloth she keeps twined around her waist sports fresh, jagged edges, and she smiles wide. Camellia settles back into the bed, closing her eyes. She could stay and pretend things were fine for just a little while longer.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: talk of parental abuse/neglect

“I hate you.”

“Do you, now?”

“Completely. Utterly. With all my being.”

Fenris only smiles as he scoops the sovereigns in the middle of the table nearly into his lap. Camellia groans, slamming her spine into the back of the chair and crossing her arms with a flurry of movement. Varric laughs and he hunts down the discarded cards to begin shuffling again. “I told you, Freckles, playing with him is a nightmare.”

“I hate this. I’m sitting out this round.”

Camellia plucks her mug up from the table and takes a long swig. Fenris flicks his eyes up to her neck then drops his gaze to the cards being dealt to him. She stands up from the table. “Varric, you need more?”

“Of course,” he drawls, offering up his mug lazily. “Choir Boy? You sure you don’t want anything?”

“Just water will be alright, if they aren’t too busy,” he finally admits, thumbing through his cards.

“Will do,” Camellia says, saluting with her index and middle finger. Without even asking, she grabs Fenris’s empty mug from beside him to bring him a refill. It takes everything in him to keep from turning around, watching her hips swing back and forth as she takes each stair carefully. He knows she’s likely leaning against the wall, letting her shoulder drag against the wood to help keep her steady. He swallows hard.

“No, by all means,” Varric starts, not even looking up from the fanned-out cards between his fingers. “Continue being as obvious as you can be.”

Sebastian rolls his lips inward and closes his eyes to keep from laughing.

“What?” Fenris can feel his heartbeat in his throat. His ears are reddening; he can feel the warmth in them, and he tries to flatten them as much as he can. “Obvious about what?”

Varric sighs this time, placing his cards face down. He folds his hands together and rests his elbows on the table. Fenris looks away from the unwavering gaze. The clawed tips of his gauntlets dig into the flesh of his thighs. “We’re not here to play _that_ kind of game, elf.”

Varric’s voice is not exactly hostile. But it is not friendly. The usually lighthearted dwarf is deadly serious, and even Sebastian is looking between them with raised eyebrows. Downstairs, the unmistakable sound of Camellia’s Fereldan laugh can be heard; it carries up the stairs into the suite, and Fenris feels his gut twist pleasantly in response. Varric narrows his eyes.

“Look.” The leather of Varric’s gloves creaks as his hands squeeze together. He shifts in his seat. “I don’t know what you have going on. I don’t know why you felt the need to do what you did. But it’s clear you know it was stupid as shit.”

Camellia is shouting to someone, and Fenris can hear her coming closer to the stairs. He knows Varric can hear her, too.

“She’s hurting, broody. So you can at least lock up the sappy shit in front of her, alright? You giving her false hope?” Varric grins and waves to Camellia coming up the stairs. He levels with Fenris again. “Knock it off.”

“You guys didn’t even start?” Camellia shouts breathlessly.

They all flinch. “Easy there, Fereldan, the rest of us can still hear just fine,” Sebastian teases.

“Sorry!” She laughs. She plops mugs down in front of each of them before taking her seat back. “It’s so _loud_ down there.”

“Anyway, you know I can’t play without my lucky charm,” Varric says, giving Camellia a nudge.

“Aw, Varric, you still trying to make up for that time your shite for brains brother left us to rot underground?” Camellia sticks her bottom lip out in a pout. “That’s cute.”

“Oh!” Varric covers his heart with his cards. “I’ve been wounded!”

Camellia rolls her eyes, smiling, as she lifts her mug of ale to her lips. She peers over the edge to stare at Fenris. The elf meets her gaze, raising an eyebrow. Camellia says nothing, only drinks as the three men around her begin to play. Fenris’s skin itches; she won’t look away. It makes him start to sweat under his armor.

“Aaaaand I’ll be taking that,” says Varric suddenly, tossing down his hand rather triumphantly.

Fenris hums thoughtfully before his ears prick. “I don’t think you will, actually.” He drops his cards onto the table with the smallest smile.

“Andraste’s _tits_ , Fenris! Sorry, Sebastian.” The prince rolls his eyes good-naturedly before taking a drink of the water Hawke had brought him. “You’re a menace to society.”

“So I’ve been told.” He starts scooping the sovereigns into his coin purse. Camellia knocks back the rest of her drink. “I think I should head back.” She combs her fingers through the copper hair on the top of her head. “You coming, Fenris?”

Fenris stands quickly, a sway taking him over just barely. He ties his coin purse back to his belt. “Ready.”

“Broody--” Varric calls, scooping his cards up to put away for next week.

A wash of cold runs over his skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. He turns and looks at the dwarf.

“Think about what I said.” Varric blinks slowly, pointedly. “Alright?”

Fenris only nods, and then he follows Camellia out of the Hanged Man. He takes a deep breath of the salty air and huffs it out in a tired sigh. She tilts her head up to look at the stars briefly. It was one of his favorite things she did; no matter where they were, she would always stop to stare up in wonder at the little pinpricks of starlight. Camellia smiles, then she drops her head to look at Fenris.

“What’d Varric want?”

Fenris rolls the stiffness out of his shoulders. “He, um, wants to hold wicked grace at Donnic’s this week. Instead of the mansion.” The lie is thick in his mouth, jumbled like he can’t stand to say it to her.

“I thought Aveline didn’t know about wicked grace? For good reason,” she adds with a mumble. They take the cobblestone path up from the depths of lowtown toward their homes.

“She’s got...overtime. I don’t remember why, but she won’t be there.” _This is stupid,_ he thinks. _She knows you’re lying._

“Mm.” Camellia drops the subject, thankfully, and they continue through Kirkwall in a half-awkward silence. Fenris keeps swiveling his ears to listen for danger. She hums a song.

As they climb another set of stairs, Camellia looks over at the door of the former Amell estate. Her face falls. She makes a noise of disgust in the back of her throat.

“What?”

“Mother’s still awake. You can tell because--” She points to the window high above the front door. “The chandelier’s still lit. She’s the only one that likes that blasted thing.” Camellia fidgets with the rings on her fingers. “Maybe I’ll go to the docks and watch the ocean for a bit.”

Fenris watches the chandelier flicker against the glass, and he murmurs, almost too quiet for either of them to hear, “Would you like me to come with you?”

Camellia turns, looks at him with eyes clouded. “Yes,” she nearly whispers. “I would.”

They turn tail and walk toward the sound of the waves breaking. For a brief moment, he wants to grab her hand in his, squeeze it, rub his thumb over the scarred knuckles. Varric’s voice finds him and instead he makes a fist at his side and grits his teeth.

The ocean finally peeks out between the buildings, and they stomp onto a wooden dock. It moves almost imperceptibly from the force of the ocean, and when they reach the end, they sit together. Camellia digs her fingernails into the wood, pulling little fragments off and tossing them into the water.

“I’ve always hated being at home,” Camellia admits, her fingers still pulling off splinters of the dock. “Even before Father died it was hardly tolerable at best.”

Fenris says nothing. He watches her pluck anxiously, thinking of the last time she touched him.

“Mother always loved the twins more.” She flicks the splinter into the sea and folds her hands in her lap. It isn’t long before her fingers start to spin her jewelry. “When they were born, I knew then I would always be two steps behind.” Camellia twists her rings. “To be never enough but always expected to be exceptional…” Her jaw tenses. “Mother never loved me like them.”

Fenris wants to tell her. He wants to say it for her. He can’t. “I’m sorry,” he says instead.

“Father tried. He tried to keep it even. He tried so hard to make it feel normal.” A wave catches the toe of Camellia’s boot. “But once he was gone, that was it.”

“I have been so desperate for a family,” Fenris finally murmurs. “That I forgot, or perhaps willfully ignored, that family can inflict that same pain that anyone else can.”

Camellia nods gently. “I never understood that from you. The desire to find family when I’ve spent my life wanting to be away from mine. But with Bethany and Carver gone...sometimes I understand. I miss them.”

Fenris looks over at her. He maps every freckle dotting her face. He follows the curve of her nose, and the way her forehead wrinkles when she’s focusing. He wants to kiss her. He wishes he could lay her here and apologize for everything; he wants to listen to her come undone and cry his name again and again until she forgets he ever left. His words fail him. “I’m sorry.”

Camellia smiles weakly, and she looks up at him. Her grey eyes shine with unshed tears. “You being here is a greater comfort than you know.”

Fenris’s heart threatens to break open. He clenches his fists. Camellia leans toward him, rests her head on his armored shoulder. Fenris bites his tongue to still the hammering in his chest.

“If you want to stay at the mansion again,” he says softly, looking down at the top of her head. “You can.”

“Thank you, Fenris.”

The way she says his name makes his eyelids flutter closed. He releases a heavy exhale. Everything in his body aches to touch her. Fear keeps him paralyzed, stiff as she stays against him.

The tide presses forward, lapping consistently at the bottom of their boots now. Camellia sits up; she clears her throat and avoids his eyes. “Mother is probably asleep by now.”

Fenris nods. The two of them stand, and the dock continues to sway.

“I’ll walk you back,” he offers.

Camellia shakes her head. “No. It’s fine. Thank you for this, though.” She keeps her eyes from him. “Goodnight, Fenris.”

“Goodnight, Camellia.” Fenris watches her start to leave. He conjures up an image of himself running after her on the dock, grabbing her face and dipping her low in a soft kiss that speaks everything he is too afraid to say. It makes him take a step forward, but he stops. Camellia turns to look back at him, as if she is begging him. She only flicks her gaze down and smiles before disappearing around the corner.

Fenris is frozen until he mimics her movement and looks down. The red token is still wrapped tightly around his wrist.


End file.
